


Long Time

by AeeDee



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill from the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/">Tron kink meme</a>, an intentionally AU story that runs with a Mental Institution setting.  (re: The Grid as an alternate reality.) This makes more sense once you've seen the film, because I make repetitious, intentional use of in-film dialogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time

The Grid. A digital frontier. I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer. What did they look like? Ships, motorcycles… were the circuits like freeways? I kept dreaming of a world I thought I’d never see. And then… one day… I got in.

*

“So, do you know what you’re going to say?” his voice is soothing and calm, as the car steadily rolls down the dusty road, a steady rattle as cars pass them by.

“Haven’t thought that far,” he calmly acknowledges, a slight tension on his face. “I’ve just gotta… see what he’s got for me.”

“Sam-” the man attempts to start, but his intrusion is patient and calm.

“I don’t know what I’ll say, Alan,” his voice a slow sigh. “It all depends on what scene we’re in.”

-

“Sam?” a young woman’s voice from down the hall, calling for him.

“Quorra,” he smiles, turning in her direction. He gives a slight wave when he sees her, a delicate and beautiful girl in a white uniform.

As she walks up to greet him, her eyes are wide and sparkling, “I’m happy to see you here today.”

“Oh?” he asks with a small laugh.

“Yes,” but her face is solemn for a moment, her eyelids falling as she glances to the ground apprehensively, “He seems to be doing better.” But she looks at him intently then, her gaze serious and focused, “But he could use some more encouragement.”

“Yeah, of course,” but he doesn’t know what that means. Not exactly.

“Something important has happened,” she briefs him, as he begins to follow her; they travel down the hall, past a few closed doors. “He’s behaving strangely,” her pace slows, as they near a particular door, with a metal plate that reads _K. Flynn_. She nearly whispers as she leans in towards him, “But I think it’s a good sign.”

“Thank you, Quorra,” he pauses hesitantly, “for all your help, I mean.”

She gives a small smile, tilting her head as she acknowledges his comment, but is unsure of how to respond. Her black hair shimmers beneath the white lights that line the ceiling, and she continues to lean in closer as he completes his statement-

“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

But her smile turns sad, as it gradually fades away, “It’s no problem, Sam. I only want to help.”

“Don’t we all,” he murmurs.

“What?” she questions.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, and smiles politely. And with a nervous laugh, “I guess I’ll go in,” as he gestures towards the door with a loose hand.

“Good luck, Sam,” she smiles again. But that’s not as reassuring as it should be.

-

“Sam?” a quiet voice in the silent room. The artificial white light from the room blurs with stray lines of sun that peer in between blinds covering the dusty window. The floor is cleaned, but scratched and dented. The walls are smooth, and covered in textured, beige wallpaper. And there’s a single bed, a white bed with clean, folded white sheets, and on it sits a man, an aged man with a sorrowful, stunned look in his eyes.

“Long time,” Sam murmurs, his own sadness evident. He steps closer nervously, unsure of what to expect. Every time it’s the same, but every time it’s a little different.

“You have no idea,” his dad’s voice is full of awe, his heavy eyes gradually widening.

Every time it’s a little different. But here it is again. This scenario. This scene. How many times-

“You… you’re here,” the man opens his arms, expecting to embrace him. “You’re here.”

And politely, Sam moves forward, and returns the embrace warmly, “I’m here.”

Every time it’s a little different. Sometimes the old man cries. Sometimes he smiles. Today, his expression is somber and hesitant, as if he’s more shocked than he ordinarily would be.

When Sam pulls back from that embrace, the man is increasingly silent, but his eyes appear lost and emotionally affected. Sam asks, in a considerately faint tone, “Dad?”

“Sam?” his voice is similarly weak, as his eyes scan the room somewhat aimlessly.

“I’m here,” he tries again.

“You have no idea,” the man says.

“Dad-”

“You… You’re here,” the man smiles.

Sam stares in silence, as something inside him is slowly breaking. Somewhere inside his chest…

“Long time,” he murmurs, just to see-

“You have no idea,” the man replies.

Sam’s heart stops. He starts to feel some inexplicable surge of emotion, his body temperature rising, his head starting to sink as a realization sinks in. A pain wells up behind his eyes, and he blinks a few times and clears his throat to keep his reaction restrained.

So he tries something different.

“The grid. A digital frontier,” he does his best to keep his voice as calm as possible, as he takes a seat in the chair beside his father’s bed. “I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer.”

His father’s face lights up, as a smile appears, “What did they look like?”

Sam watches the man intently, studying him for a further reaction, “Were the circuits like freeways-”

“I kept dreaming of a world I thought I’d never see,” a smile stretches across the man’s face. “Then, one day… I got in,” he makes a fist with one hand, as if he can’t contain his excitement, for a brief flash in time.

“I see,” Sam murmurs, as he thinks that over. This turn of events was more reassuring than the infinite loop his father was trapped in before, but it still didn’t ease his mind.

Because like that previous discussion, this too had happened before. But each time, it’s a little different. The way he presents it is a little different. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he grins. Sometimes he’s chuckles a little. But the words never change.

Every so often, Sam would deviate from the script inside that man’s head. He’d toss a new sentence in there, to see what would happen. He’d often receive a lack of a fresh response, as the man would recycle another line he’d already uttered at least once before. But sometimes… Sometimes, he could say just the right buzzwords to change the equation. To shift and revise that script a little.

“Alan received a page from Quorra,” he tries this one.

“I didn’t send a page,” no, nothing new. Maybe that line was too similar to its original…

“Alan is waiting for me outside,” so he tries this one.

No response. That’s too different. The man closes his eyes, and starts to breathe normally, as if he’s retreating into a quiet space inside his head.

“Dad,” Sam pleads. “Please.”

“Sam?” that familiar question.

No, not this again. “Alan is my boyfriend,” an old favorite he likes to try. It usually works to trigger something different. Anything to deviate from a familiar script.

But this time, no dice. The man resumes breathing slowly, outstretching his arms, trailing his hands across the surface of his bed.

“I am in love with Alan Bradley,” he tries again.

And this time. This time…

“How can that be,” the old man’s eyes grow wide for a moment, before they relax. “You don’t even know him, Sam.”

“I’ve known him for a long time, Dad,” Thank God, finally something new. In its own broken fashion, a genuine conversation is slowly emerging. Slowly… “He took care of me for twenty years-”

“While I was trapped in here,” the man says with some astonishment. “But Alan is here with me, Sam. He came in to rescue me, but Clu…”

No, not another story. Not another story. Not another-

“Clu did the same to me, that he did to him. He trapped him here, Sam. He’s lost somewhere in the Grid…”

“He’s here with me, Dad. We’re in a relationship,” he attempts, speaking slowly to convey his words as clearly as he can.

“I’ve done what I could to help him, Sam. But now it’s entirely up to him-”

“We’re dating each other,” Sam continues, “We’re engaged to be married-”

“I can only pray he doesn’t end up in the games. Once he hits that stage-”

“We’re going to get married in a few months,” Sam emphasizes, raising his voice. “He proposed three weeks ago-”

“He’s toast, once that happens,” the man shrugs. But then- “He proposed?”

“Yeah,” Sam comments, surprised at his sudden shift in demeanor. He’s hoping it means something better and brighter-

“How was it?” a calm smile.

“It was great,” and for once the tears building in his eyes are genuine, and not born from deep, deep sorrow. This is- “It was on the fourth of July, so, there were fireworks and everything.” This is almost like a normal conversation- “I wish you could’ve seen that, Dad.” This has to be a good sign, it has to be. “The whole sky lit up.”

“That man always did have a soft spot for fireworks.”

“Really?” Sam laughs a little, surprised at the small spark of honesty.

“Yeah, every year he’d make us all drive out to see ‘em over the lake. The whole board of Encom.”

Sam’s laughing softly, enjoying the anecdote but he’s not sure where it’ll lead. He wants to feel happy. He wants to believe this could be a sign of something greater. Genuine progress, if he can keep this conversation going for at least a few more minutes…

“We were,” he starts hesitantly, “kind of hoping you could… come out and see the ceremony, Dad.”

“Grant me a day of freedom?” the man smirks.

“Yeah,” Sam grins. “There’d be plenty of fireworks-”

“Yeah, I could watch the whole sky light up,” but the smile on his face is starting to fade. And when his eyes drift back to Sam’s face they’re serious once again, “I’m gonna… knock on the sky and listen to the sound.”

As the man exhales slowly and closes his eyes, Sam stares at him in a kind of resolved shock. The sensation numbs him, crawling up his spine as he starts to shake, realizing that every other thing he says- Every other thing he says is just-

That man is just gonna keep recycling lines. Those same lines, over and over, some imaginary script in his head. A script of machines and battles and a war against himself and a complete world he’s trapped himself in-

Sam just hopes the story has a good ending. “I’m gonna go,” he sighs, his patience wearing thin for the day. He delivered the news he came here for, anyway.

He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I’ll be seeing you, Dad.”

“Goodbye, kiddo,” the man opens his eyes, giving him a saddened, heavy look.

But not even that phrase is genuine. Sam has heard that one before, too.

-

And sometime later, a few months into the future…

“Sam?”

“Long time...”

“You have no idea.”


End file.
